THE LAST RESORT
Me miserable! Which way shall I fly?
MILTON.
Gloria fled towards the house, sped through the open door, rushed up the
stairs, nor ever paused until she had reached her own chamber and locked
herself within it.
There she sank down into her arm-chair to recover breath. Her heart was
beating fast, her head reeling.
She seemed to herself on the point of swooning or dying, and she neither
feared nor cared if this were her last hour on earth.
She only feared to hear again the revolting words that had just been
breathed in her shuddering ears. She only cared to escape their
repetition.
This, then, was the meaning of those fixed looks that had so thrilled
her nerves and curdled her blood—Marcel de Crespigney wanted to marry
her! Marcel, whom she always so loyally loved as her dear aunt’s husband
and widower, and as her own uncle by marriage, now wished to make her
his wife!
She shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out
the vision of such a marriage.
But she could not shut out the vision of the beautiful, rather weak face
that arose before her in all its pale, pathetic, appealing sadness.
Those large, dark, melancholy eyes haunted her.
She could not rouse her soul to any anger against him. She loved him too
well, as she had always done from her earliest infancy to this moment.
She could not now remember the day when she had not loved him better
than any one in the whole world. She loved him now as well as ever—as
her uncle, her Marcel—but she loathed him as a suitor for her hand.
And withal she pitied him deeply.
“Poor Marcel!” she murmured to herself when she had grown a little
calmer. “Poor Marcel! He has always sacrificed himself for the happiness
of other people—even for auntie—and he has never had any happiness
himself. And now he is losing his reason. He certainly is losing his
reason, or he would never dream of such a mad act as marrying—Ugh! I
will not think of it. What a misfortune. What can have caused it? His
long, lonely life perhaps. And perhaps also, as he loves me so dearly,
and he has no one else but me to love, he is afraid that I will do as
other young ladies do—that is, some time or other, marry and leave him.
Foolish old Marcel, to think that I would leave him for any one else! If
he did but know me, he would know that I should never marry. But the
more I think of it, the surer I feel that that is the reason of his
strange conduct. He loves me; he has no one left but me, and he fears
that I will leave him, and so he wants to marry me just to prevent my
going, and to insure my staying with him as long as he lives. But, oh,
what an alternative!” she added, with a shudder.
She was, however, growing calmer, having found, as she supposed, a
solution of the whole difficulty.
“Now,” she continued her mental argument, “when Marcel is made to
understand that I will never leave him so long as he lives, and never
even wish to leave him, but will remain with him, and be perfectly happy
with him, in devoting myself entirely to his service, as the most loving
and dutiful daughter or niece could do, then, of course, he will be
perfectly satisfied.”
The ringing of the first dinner-bell aroused her from her reverie.
“Poor Marcel!” she said to herself. “I dare say he thinks now that he
has frightened and offended me so thoroughly that I will not go down and
join him at dinner, even on this Christmas-day! And indeed he did more
than frighten me—he shocked me so awfully that I am sure I could never
bear to look on his poor, wretched face again, if I had not found a way
to cure him of his madness, and make him contented—a way that will not
require any self-sacrifice on my part either, for I never dreamed of
marrying and leaving him. I never liked the idea of marrying. The most
unhappy people I ever saw in my life were married people—my aunt and
uncle—and the happiest people I ever knew were the unmarried. No! I will
never marry and leave my uncle! And when I make him understand this, he
will renounce his foolish and sacrilegious mania and rest contented with
the company of his niece.”
While turning these thoughts over in her mind, she was examining the
contents of her wardrobe to select a dress suitable to the occasion.
Gloria de la Vera had always dressed in a style too old for her early
youth and bright beauty. The reason was perhaps that she saw only
elderly or aged people.
Now, for this Christmas _tête-à-tête_ dinner with her uncle, she wore a
dark blue moiré antique, with low neck and short sleeves richly trimmed
with old point lace. Her ornaments were heirlooms of her father’s
family—earrings, necklace and bracelets of pearls set in diamonds. Her
rippling golden hair was carried back from her forehead and gathered
into a shower of ringlets that fell over a low comb from the top of her
head to her graceful shoulders.
As the second bell rang, she opened the door and descended to the
drawing-room.
Meanwhile Marcel de Crespigney had returned to the house, entered the
privacy of his library, and banged the door to, angrily, behind him.
And there he had spent some hours striding up and down the floor and
calling down maledictions on his own head for his want of patience and
self-control.
In the midst of his confusion the sound of the first dinner-bell smote
his ears.
He did not attend to its warning to go and make his toilet, but
continued to walk up and down the floor, breathing imprecations upon his
own folly, until the more imperative clangor of the second bell summoned
him.
“And now,” he said, “I suppose I have so offended and estranged her as
to drive her away from the table so that I shall have to dine alone on
Christmas-day! Well, it will serve me right if I do!”
And with another malediction upon his “madness,” he left the study and
walked slowly and sadly into the dining-room.
How great was his surprise and pleasure to see his beloved Gloria
standing with her hand upon the back of her chair, at the head of the
table.
He noticed, too, that she was carefully and beautifully dressed—though,
with her moiré antique, old point lace and diamonds, more in the style
of a middle-aged matron than a very youthful maiden.
She was looking happy, too—a circumstance which he misunderstood and
misinterpreted in his own favor, for he could not know what had been
passing in her own mind, or that her content was founded on the faith
that she had discovered a perfect solution for the difficulty in which
she had previously found herself.
If the servant had not been present he would have expressed his
contrition for having frightened her, and his delight in meeting her
again, but there stood Laban, in his best holiday dress, a suit of fine
black broadcloth, swallow-tailed coat and continuations, black satin
vest and spotless linen, exhibiting at once the self-consciousness of a
dandy and the solemnity of a bishop, and looking disapprobation on his
shabby and rusty master, who had made no toilet in honor of the
Christmas dinner.
The young lady of the house took no notice of the colonel’s neglect; yet
it was to her he spoke, of course, when he said:
“I owe you an apology, my dear, for appearing before you in this style,
but really——”
“Never mind, uncle, dear. We are alone, so what does it matter? Who has
a better right to appear in comfortable dishabille at his own table than
you have?” she brightly inquired, thinking at the same time of the
graver apology he owed her for a heavier offence.
He naturally misinterpreted her good humor, and rewarded it with a smile
of gratitude.
Though they were but two, the dinner was a protracted one, for there
were many courses, and the family cook would have felt enraged if every
one of them had not been honored.
And old Laban—a cross between a bishop and a dandy—waited with solemnity
and self-conceit.
At length it was over, and they adjourned to the drawing-room.
“Shall I play Luther’s Christmas hymn for you, uncle, dear?” inquired
Gloria, as she seated herself before the piano.
“Yes, love, thank you, play that, but no more; for I wish to talk with
you and settle something before I can take any interest in anything
else,” he replied.
Gloria sat down and played and sang with all her usual feeling, spirit
and charm.
When she had finished her hymn, she arose and went to the fire and
seated herself beside her guardian; for she also wished to talk to him,
and “settle something” which she believed would content them both.
Colonel de Crespigney was the first to speak.
“I was too sudden with you this morning, dear. I did not stop to
consider how your nerves had been shaken by the frightful accident of
yesterday, and so I startled you by a too abrupt disclosure of my
feelings.” He paused a moment, and then added: “I beg you to forgive my
want of consideration, dear child, and to let me hope——” He paused
again, and she took his hand and said kindly:
“Say no more about it, uncle, dear. I understand—I understand—and I have
something to reply, presently.”
“You understand, and yet you call me uncle!” he said, wincing.
“It was a slip of the tongue, Marcel, dear. A mere matter of habit. I
will learn to call you anything you please, so that I may make you
happy,” she answered, affectionately.
“And you will let me hope—you will let me hope—that some day, not far
off, you will give yourself to me entirely; you will be my own, my
precious, my pearl beyond price, my best gift of God—MY WIFE?” he
breathed, in low, deep, intense tones, while his whole dark face grew
radiant with happiness. He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. She
drew her hand away, averted her head and shrank from him.
“My timid one, what are you afraid of?” he tenderly inquired, drawing
nearer to her, and attempting gently to steal his arm around her waist,
for he still fatally misunderstood her.
“Don’t, uncle, don’t! This is madness! This is sacrilege!” she
exclaimed, withdrawing herself from his gentle caress. “I am not timid,
uncle; but don’t do that again, or you will drive me out of your sight
forever,” she added, as she walked away to a distant window, and stood
there, pale and trembling, looking out, but seeing nothing.
Marcel de Crespigney remained where she had left him, leaning back into
his chair, with his eyes fixed upon the fire—like hers, seeing nothing.
He did not attempt to follow her to apologize or explain. He was sorely
perplexed.
After a few moments, when she had had time to compose herself, she came
back to her seat and said:
“When I ran away from you this morning, I was too much shocked and
distracted to understand anything rightly, or to know what to do. But
after I had come to myself I began to reflect, and, at length, I
comprehended——” She paused, as if to think a little longer.
“Yes, dear; I know, I know. I will give you time. I will be very
patient,” he replied, very gently and contentedly, for he still widely
misinterpreted her. She did not know that he did so misinterpret her,
and thus they were unconsciously at cross-purposes.
“And,” slowly continued the girl, “as soon as I comprehended, I resolved
to come to you and tell you something that I have determined upon, and
which I think will harmonize our lives, and make us both happy.”
“Yes, love, yes, speak freely, speak plainly!” he breathed hardly,
suppressing every impulse to draw nearer to her, or to touch her hand
that hung so near his, over the arm of her chair.
“Well, then, Marcel, dear—oh! it is difficult to speak of marriage, even
negatively, as I shall!—but, Marcel, I know you have been thinking that
some day I might, as other young folks do, marry and leave my home for
another; and so, to prevent me from doing that, you dreamed of the
impossible plan you proposed to me——”
“‘Impossible,’ Gloria?” he repeated, as his happy face gloomed and
darkened.
“Yes, ‘impossible,’ because insane, profane, sacrilegious! Oh, I cannot
bear to think of it! Do not compel me to think of it—even
negatively—after this!”
“Gloria!” he cried, in a tone of pain and reproach.
“Hear me out, dear Marcel! for indeed I mean to reassure you! Listen,
then! Since you love me so well that you would even marry me—ugh!—rather
than lose me, hear me promise, Marcel, that you shall never lose me. I
will never, never, never leave you to marry any one at all! I will stay
with you and be your own faithful, affectionate, devoted niece, loving
you as if I were your daughter—loving and serving you as my dear uncle,
and even as if you were my own father! Now, Marcel, I promise to do this
on the word of a de la Vera, whose very name is Truth! if only you would
give up this mad and sacrilegious idea of me, which, of course, I know
you will readily do.”
“And is this your plan for ‘harmonizing our lives’ and making me happy?”
he groaned, with such a look of anguish that Gloria could not endure it.
With a low cry of pain she averted her face.
“But, child, I will not torture you, as I see I am doing now. Time and
patience—time and patience work wonders. I must wait and hope—wait and
hope,” he breathed, with the reiteration of misery.
She arose and stood behind him, and with her hand on the back of his
chair, murmured:
“Marcel, I am not angry, but I am very, very unhappy. I must go now and
stay by myself a little while.”
“Go, then, Gloria! Go!” he moaned, without turning to look at her.
Gloria fled to her own room; but even there the agonized face she had
left behind followed her, haunted her, and tormented her.
Then she dressed herself in her seal jacket and hat and went out, and
walked up and down under the cold starlight of the Christmas night until
she was so weary that she could walk no longer.
Finally she returned to the house and retired to bed without again
seeing her guardian.
The terrible mental trials of the days and weeks that followed, surpass
all powers of description.
The deep, devoted, constant love of Marcel de Crespigney for the
beautiful child he called his ward, had been fanned by opposition and
fear of disappointment into an intense and insane passion. He lost all
patience, all self-control; he could no longer refrain from pleading
with her or caressing her, even when he saw that his words and actions
inflicted tortures unendurable upon the gentle and sensitive soul.
And Gloria, she suffered with a subtle anguish, difficult to analyze,
impossible to describe. As his niece and child, she loved and pitied her
uncle, with all her young, compassionate heart, even as she had loved
and pitied him from her earliest infancy up to present girlhood. But
with her Christian faith and training she believed his suit to her to be
most sinful and sacrilegious, and she shrank from it in horror and
loathing unspeakable and indescribable. Yet, whenever she betrayed these
emotions of fear and abhorrence, the look of utter misery they would
call up on his face would cause a momentary revulsion of feeling in her,
melting her heart to tenderness and sympathy.
He would be quick to see this change and gather hope from it.
Sometimes during the day, when her pity for him almost broke her own
heart, she would be on the verge of sacrificing all her future life, her
religious principles, her very soul’s salvation, only to give him
happiness, to drive away the look of misery from his face, and see him
smile again.
Sometimes at night she would dream that she had really done this, that
she had become her uncle’s wife. Then she would awake with a cry of
terror and rejoice that it was but a dream. At other times she would not
wake so soon, but would dream on of being married to her uncle, and
horrified by her position and trying to run away to hide herself, to
drown herself, to do anything rather than to fall into his hands, or be
compelled to live with him as her husband, and so she would moan and
sigh in her troubled sleep throughout the night, and wake at last
prostrated, depressed and miserable, with the thought that all too
probably, in some weak moment when pity should be in the ascendant, this
hideous dream might become a more hideous reality.
She had no refuge in her wretchedness, no mother, sister or friend to
whom she could confide her troubles. She could not even go away from her
guardian or from Promontory Hall. She had no protector in the world but
him, no home on earth but his house. Besides, he was her lawful
guardian, and had a guardian’s power over her—if, indeed, he ever should
choose to exercise it against her will, as he never yet had done, and as
she was sure he never would do. But this power would last until she
should become of age, or until she should marry; for by the terms of her
father’s will, her bondage as a ward was to terminate with her majority
or her marriage. Thus she had no refuge from the guardian who never
sought to coerce her inclinations in any way, but through her
affections, through her love, sympathy and compassion, had gained an
ever-increasing and most fatal power over her.
More and more dangerous grew her position as days and weeks went by.
Every day she was weaker, looking on her lover’s despair. Every night
her dreams were more terrible in their likeness to reality. To prove the
degree to which her brain and nervous system were becoming affected, she
began to be confused by dreams within dreams—in this way: She would
dream that she awoke from a dream, and, waking, found that she was
really married and miserable!
So utterly distracted was her mind that she could never be sure what was
vision and what reality.
She felt herself falling into a despair that touched insanity, and
inspired deadly horror of the ultimate results.
“I am sinking, day by day, deeper and deeper towards perdition! One of
two things will happen to me. I shall go mad in this struggle—I shall go
mad and drown myself—or else I shall marry Marcel and murder him! If I
could only die decently before being driven to such extremity! Heaven
help me and save me, for I cannot help or save myself!” she moaned, in
utter anguish.
But the crisis was fast approaching.
It happened on a morning near the last of January.
The guardian and ward left the breakfast-room; he had his hand on the
knob of the library-door, and she was on her way out for a walk, when he
called her, and begged her to come in and sit with him for a little
while.
The meekness of this prayer moved her to grant the boon.
Without a word she turned and followed him into the library.
He threw himself, with a sigh, into his great leathern arm-chair, beside
his writing-table. She drew forward a low ottoman and seated herself at
his feet, as she had loved to do in the quiet, peaceful days they had
spent together, just after her return home.
There was something now in his face and manner so broken, subdued,
resigned, as to touch her deeply with tender compassion, and draw her
into demonstrations of sympathy and affection that soon deprived him of
all self-control. Before he was aware, he reached down his hands, caught
her up in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and pressed passionate
kisses upon eyes, cheeks and lips, while speechless, breathless, she
struggled and fluttered like a captured bird, until, at length, she
broke away and fled from him.
He sat where she had left him, grieved and angered with himself for
having shocked and distressed her whom he loved better than his own
life; he cursed himself and his weakness and his folly as he had never
done before! He resolved that henceforth he would put such a guard upon
himself as never to offend her again, by word or look. He would not
intrude upon her in any way; but when he should see her again he would
humbly express his contrition and sorrow for having offended her, and
would earnestly beg her forgiveness.
And she would forgive him; for, after all, what great wrong had he done?
Only kissed her against her will; kissed her rather roughly, perhaps,
but that was because she resisted him. What great offence was in that?
he asked himself. Had he not seen in the parlor games of forfeits played
in many a country house—had he not seen young men “pick cherries,” as
they called it—run after a young girl and catch and kiss her by force,
if not against her will, and been punished only by a slap on the face,
administered with a laugh?
“Gloria is too fastidious, too morbid,” he said to himself.
Yet somehow he could not so excuse himself to his own conscience. Gloria
was pure, dainty and refined, and he was very culpable in his conduct
toward her, his conscience told him.
Now he resolved that he would ask her pardon, and after obtaining it he
would be more discreet and respectful in his manner towards her until
his love and patience should win her to be his wife.
TOO LATE.
Marcel de Crespigney was never in his life again permitted to look on
the face of Gloria de la Vera.